


Deduced

by sleepingirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Deduction fetish, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn With Plot, Sexual Tension, Sort Of, Voice Kink, fluff-ish, somewhere in season 1 perhaps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 07:11:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15836322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepingirl/pseuds/sleepingirl
Summary: "You like my voice," Sherlock said, interrupting him. "It arouses you."John shut his eyes for a moment, trying to claim back some sense of decency, trying to will his prick not to twitch. "Oh, it took you that long to catch on?" It came out weakly, but enough sarcasm to keep him afloat."Of course not. I'm flirting, John, keep up."--Slow burn, porn with a hint of plot, the thrill of the chase, the fear of being caught, the culmination of so many fantasies, and the weird obsession that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson share for Sherlock's deduction.





	Deduced

John was a clever man -- not as clever as Sherlock, as he was constantly reminded, but well-read and reasonably intelligent for a fellow of his age and position. He was a doctor, and a good one at that, and on a weekly basis he assisted the most brilliant mind in all of England in solving the unsolvable. As much as Sherlock berated him for not observing, John was provably more observant than most, but perhaps he was learning that the true shortcoming of so-called "ordinary people" was the tendency to not want to see some of the evidence that was collected right in front of them.

 

It was a bit shocking how quickly they fell into routine and easy domesticity, whatever that was for them. Logically, John knew that Sherlock was not an easy man to live with -- his violin playing was often an assemblage of sounds instead of melodies, the bullet holes in the walls, the long stretches of impenetrable silence followed by an inescapable sense of entitlement to his ear.

 

But John was happy. He knew that going through high-stress events made the downtime feel more relaxed and contented, but he'd begun to come to terms with the fact that he couldn't live without the threat of life and limb anyways, and an eccentric flatmate kept him on his toes at all times. John was really never meant to have a normal life, and this all suited him perfectly fine.

 

He was also aware that going through high-stress events tended to make people form intense interpersonal bonds quite quickly, and although Sherlock seemed immune to the rules that governed most people's psychology, John could observe well enough that he was Sherlock's closest friend, and he certainly felt some sort of strange kinship himself.

 

"Strange kinship", he was calling it; a perfect example of the selective observation that made Sherlock Holmes the far better detective.

 

Because as John was further aware, the bonding that occurred between people going through high stress events together often turned feverish and sexual.

 

John was in the army; he was familiar with the desperation that came from escaping death by the skin of his teeth: the adrenaline, the overwhelming desire for human contact. It wasn't uncommon, and it also wasn't much spoken about aloud. 

 

He knew it was normal, he knew enough about human social habits, but it was no less difficult when he found himself trying to relieve a stress-induced erection and discovered his thoughts wandering to dark hair and an angled jawline and pursed lips opening up to take him in.

 

Thank God Sherlock was out of the flat at that point, because he had a brief moment of absurd paranoia, fearing that if Sherlock were home he could deduce not only that he'd masturbated but also the subject of his fantasies.

 

Although he knew privately that it was not as far fetched as he'd like to believe.

 

The main issue, of course, was seeing Sherlock again when he returned. John feigned disinterest, eyes glued on his writing for the blog as he heard Sherlock step in the door with a wide, cheerful gait.

 

"Dutifully entertaining the masses, I see," Sherlock said without having as much as looked round the corner at him, and John's ears pricked at the familiar sounds of the coat and scarf being removed and tossed wherever pleased him -- probably the sofa this time.

 

He made a noncommittal noise and resumed typing, willing his hands to keep going normally so Sherlock wouldn't remark on his nerves.

 

Sherlock strode up to him, behind him, and leaned down to peer at his screen.

 

Too close. Absolutely far too close.

 

"D'you mind?" John managed, letting the real annoyance color his voice, but he didn't dare turn his head. He could feel the warmth of proximity, the hand braced on his chair.

 

Sherlock huffed, and suddenly John realized he was much closer than he thought. Practically next to his ear.

 

"John," he murmured, and John couldn't help it, he tensed, "I don't understand why you insist on describing my appearance as a part of my cases. I know you often have a hard time with discerning the importance of evidence but even you must see that my eye and hair color is inconsequential to Mrs. Bradford's deceased husband."

 

His voice had shaken John to his core, the lowness of it vibrating inside of his head, and he nearly forgot to be frustrated with him.

 

He looked, and he had, in fact, written,  _ 'As Sherlock Holmes walks in, his keen, ice-blue eyes survey the room, leaving nothing untouched...' _ ...Et cetera.

 

“Imagery is important for engaging readers,” he said lamely.

 

“Yes, they do just eat that stuff up, don’t they?” Sherlock muttered, mostly to himself, still hunched over him, and John felt his cock twitch in his trousers, and oh, oh no, that was not ideal.

 

“Have you ever heard of personal space?” John finally said. “You can read this when it’s finished with the rest of the ‘masses.’”

 

Sherlock snorted at that and mercifully withdrew to sit in the armchair across the room, and John allowed himself a small sigh and refocused, fingers clacking away at the keyboard.

 

“ _ ‘His... gaze is... sharp and... focused --’ _ Very descriptive, John, nice touch --”

 

“Could you not?” John snapped, because of course Sherlock would somehow be able to figure out what he was typing from the sounds of well-used keys or what have you. He looked up, and indeed, Sherlock was quite smug.

 

Later, he fantasized about having typed  _ ‘Fuck off, Sherlock’ _ several times so the message was clear, but the fantasy twisted into Sherlock rising wordlessly, approaching him, tilting his head back for a kiss, murmuring against his lips, telling him why he hadn’t finished his lunch today, and how his pupils dilated when he was aroused.

 

\--

 

For a while, he figured it wouldn’t be terribly problematic, he just had to live with the fact that sometimes, when he had personal time, he’d have to think about Sherlock Holmes to get off. Alright, he wasn’t thrilled that it’d become so frequent, and that yes, he’d “have to” do it because his other fantasies seemed, dare he say it, “boring”. But the male brain was fickle and sometimes one just had to get certain things out of one’s system, and let it run its course.

 

It didn’t seem to interfere with their working relationship, nor their domestic one, until one day when he was frustratingly on edge, looking for alone time when he couldn’t find it and refusing to masturbate while Sherlock was in the flat.

 

Sherlock had spent the better part of three days cooped up and muttering to himself about this and that, and today he was scrutinizing various envelopes. It was driving John mad.

 

“Might do you well to get a little fresh air,” John finally suggested, trying to keep an even tone.

 

“Why, which girl do you want to bring round?” Sherlock asked impatiently.

 

John sputtered for a moment, but Sherlock spoke before he could say anything.

 

“No girl then; masturbation.” Sherlock made a gesture towards the stairs. “Just go wank in the shower, I don’t see why you have to be any different than other people.”

 

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed, feeling a flush rise to his cheeks.

 

Sherlock looked up at him and sighed, fixing him with a gaze that asked, ‘Do I really have to explain this?’

 

But John never got the chance for a rebuttal, because he’d already begun.

 

“You’ve been irritable and stiff, drumming your fingers more than usual. If it was a family problem, you’d make plans; you don’t mope inside when you’re upset. If it was a girl problem, you’d go out to a pub in the evenings, but you’ve been holed up in the flat since I have been, looking over at me and then at the clock as though waiting for me to do something. When I asked which girl you wanted to bring here, you hesitated; when it’s a girl, you throw out their name when you’re exasperated as though it’s a weapon. So do us both a favor and go get yourself off -- your mood is getting annoying, and I have no plans to leave for another day or two at least.”

 

John’s face burned with humiliation and anger, and his blood was pounding so hot that he wasn’t sure if he could get up, or if he could even speak. 

 

His cock, neglected for too long, was rock hard from Sherlock’s scathing voice and shrewd attention, the deduction focused on him and his sexual habits, and for that, John wished he was dead on the spot. He was only grateful that it was hidden under the table.

 

“You bastard,” he muttered, seething.

 

Sherlock made a show of lifting his head and covering his eyes with both hands.

 

“See, John, I’m not looking; if someone were to scurry off to the restroom and have a quickie then I’d be none the wiser --”

 

“Will you shut up!” he said loudly, but John knew when to quit; he was already getting up and walking briskly to the shower.

 

\--

 

It only got worse from there, but at least Sherlock wasn’t making deductions about  _ why _ he was masturbating, or of  _ what _ . But when the warm water of the shower was beating down on his back, and he was sliding his fist up and down his hard prick, he was inevitably drawn to fantasies of Sherlock speaking to him in those low tones, telling him about what he was feeling, what Sherlock could see in each stroke and gasp. Perhaps in the shower with him -- or outside the door, proving that he could see right through John even though ordinary people could only hear the cascade of water --

 

Naturally, it became complicated when they were next on a case and Sherlock was in fine form.

 

One Ms. Clarke was concerned that her mother had murdered her sister in her sleep, who had been staying with the family to take care of their elderly father. The mother was of course beside herself between her daughter’s death and other daughter’s accusations, and refused to meet with them if she was present. The deceased was thought to have overdosed on alcohol, but her sister asserted that she always drank carefully.

 

The autopsy indeed showed alcohol poisoning -- “Boring,” said Sherlock -- and John did his best to arrange a meeting with Mrs. Clarke, at their residence.

 

“So the daughter drank too much, and now the other daughter thinks her mother did it?” John looked over at Sherlock next to him in the cab. “Seems a bit paranoid, don’t you think?”

 

Sherlock continued to stare out the window, clearly thinking, and John felt the familiar prickle of anticipation in reaching the conclusion of a case.

 

“Hello, Mrs. Clarke,” Sherlock said cheerfully as he opened the door. “So let’s see why you’ve killed your daughter, and why you want your husband to die.”

 

John looked over at him, shocked. “You mean she was right?”

 

Sherlock flashed him a smile -- clearly in a good mood, not even bothering to explain yet -- and then turned to Mrs. Clarke, who was sobbing.

 

“What are you talking about?” she cried, bringing a tissue up to her eyes and dabbing them. “I loved my daughter, and my husband! None of us anticipated his illness… and now my poor Elise…”

 

“Well,” Sherlock began, and John sucked in a small breath, “Your husband is dying of cancer, but much quicker than anticipated, yes? Based on his diagnosis he should have been able to manage it with some care and medication -- ah, yes, medication, Mrs. Clarke, a bottle of which I saw in your bin with the label scratched off. But it was filled just earlier this week and with a 30-day supply of pills, now how did that happen?”

 

“Did she force her daughter to overdose on her husband’s cancer medication?” John asked, a little breathless.

 

“Close, John! But no. Mrs. Clarke was afraid that if the medication showed in her system, then the police would snoop around at her place. She was disposing of the pills in some other way -- perhaps selling them? Yes, yes, selling them, then. Desperate cancer patients are quite discreet. Her daughter binge drinking was much less suspicious, but it was too messy -- you got her drunk and injected the rest directly, but you haven’t gotten to the sharps drop-off yet, so the syringe is cleverly hidden in the garden.”

 

John bit his lip and remembered their walk from the cab to the Clarke’s front door, mere seconds that Sherlock must have taken to glance at the garden and the bins out on the curb.

 

“There was fresh mulch on most of your hydrangeas, but in one spot slightly darker -- it had been turned, and the wet underside was displaced to the top. I know you were wondering. Anyways, clearly you wanted your husband to kick the bucket quicker than he had been -- you were overjoyed at his cancer diagnosis but disappointed when he had a great chance of remission. Money, I suppose; it’s always about money, so dull. Your late daughter threw a wrench into your plans when she moved in to help care for him; she likely saw your receipts for sugar pills -- still there on your messy counter, by the way, might want to think about tidying up -- and realized you were slowly allowing her father to die, so she was giving him the real medicine in secret when you weren’t around. She didn’t tell him though; if she had, perhaps she could have gotten them both out of this mess before you found out. Family bonds really are such a burden, aren’t they, Mrs. Clarke?”

 

Mrs. Clarke was white as a sheet and her crying had ceased completely, eyes full of shock and fists clenched and shaking.

 

“Besides,” Sherlock said, “you just mentioned that you loved your daughter and husband in the past tense -- both of them.”

 

John’s breathing was shallow and he realized with horror that he was aroused -- half-erect having listened to Sherlock’s deft and thorough deduction. He shifted his weight, clasping his hands over the front of his trousers to hide anything indecent, trying to focus on anything to distract himself from his mortification. Sherlock looked inordinately pleased with himself, smiling at Mrs. Clarke, and then looking over at John.

 

“Go ahead and call Lestrade,” he said, voice lowered in some semblance of privacy, and John clenched his hands tighter together to try to counteract the way it made heat sink into his abdomen. “I think the police can take it from here.”

 

\--

 

John refused -- absolutely refused -- to get off in the shower on principle, because it was bad enough that he had gotten hard listening to Sherlock solve a real case, and he wasn’t about to go so low as to take advantage of a grieving family to get his rocks off.

 

Secretly, too, he believed a bit that he’d Pavlov’ed his way into this mess, getting hot and bothered hearing Sherlock’s voice, and perhaps he could just as easily ignore his impulses and train his body out of it. Abstinence. Celibacy. Whatever it took.

 

Deeper down, he knew that morally it didn’t appall him as much as it was impractical; the very nice living and working arrangement he had with Sherlock would only become more challenging, perhaps threatened by his damned sex drive.

 

He threw on a jumper and trousers and tried to be casual as he walked into the living room. Sherlock was sitting in the armchair, holding a book up, an anthology of sorts, it seemed.

 

"Bit of light reading?"

 

Sherlock snorted. "If you call contemporary poetry 'light'. So, obviously, yes."

 

John stretched out on the sofa and began to search for the remote to the TV. "I know you're a bloody genius, but I can't imagine going straight from a case to something that requires reading comprehension. Some of us actually value the time where we can just watch crap telly or something."

 

"Most ordinary people do," Sherlock answered, not looking up, but John could see the slight lift of his cheekbones, belaying a tiny smile. 

 

His voice, that deep murmur, had distracted John too much to properly tune out and enjoy the terrible makeover show he'd put on. Despite himself, he found himself thinking that it would be far more enjoyable hearing Sherlock berate whichever author he was reading for their purple prose, and then tell him what they had been eating when they wrote the piece.

 

"Is it good poetry?" he wondered aloud, not really expecting a response to such an inane question or while Sherlock was absorbed.

 

"There is worse," Sherlock answered, apathetic, and the easy, maddening confidence in his voice made something twist inside of John’s chest. "'Good' is, of course, subjective in some senses, so continuing the conversation in this vain is fruitless if you mean to actually get anything from it."

 

John laughed suddenly, not out of amusement but out of exhaustion, feeling a little bit dizzy, the long day finally, truly catching up to him. He was frustrated -- frustrated that Sherlock was so unflappable, frustrated that he himself was so vulnerable and sophomoric.

 

Sherlock's eyes, for the first time, lifted to look at him. "Something funny?"

 

"No," John bit out, smiling a bit but grinding his teeth. "Just tired."

 

"I hear many people find poetry quite relaxing."

 

"Oh, well," John exclaimed sarcastically, "Why don't you read it to me, then?"

 

"Alright." Sherlock began flipping through pages, studying them intensely, with that same discerning look he gave to evidence at a crime scene.

 

John sat there, stunned for a moment, before realizing that this was a terrible idea, that he hadn't won anything with his little remark. If Sherlock began reading poetry to him, he might die. It was too close to a fantasy, the idea of hearing that sonorous voice lilt and carry over to him while he sat there trying not to show his arousal. How did a normal person even react when his male flatmate began reading him poetry?

 

Again, he was reminded that there was no concept of normal at 221B.

 

"No, Sherlock, it's fine," he said quickly, moving to get up. "I was thinking of going to bed, anyways."

 

"No, you weren't," Sherlock said in that same disinterested tone. "You're trying to avoid the situation. Can you deduce why, John?"

 

John sat there, dumbfounded, trapped, mind racing. Was he so transparent? Stupid question -- 

 

Sherlock still had his nose in the book, and appeared to settle on a particular page as John’s heart beat wildly.

 

"This is 'Flora,’" Sherlock said, lifting it a bit closer to his face and mercifully not looking his way, "by a man called Sherrinford Hayward."

 

John could do nothing but stare, caught like a deer in headlights, fearing that his breath would break the moment and betray his utter hysteria. Everything was moving too fast, happening before his brain could catch up with it and properly protest --

 

Sherlock drew a breath and began to read.

 

John expected him to speak in that same, indifferent tone, and he wasn’t prepared for him to sound like he was giving a proper reading, dynamic and practiced, but of course he could -- of  _ course _ he could --

 

_ 'Simple flowers, _

_ 'All soft petals and slender stems, on a path well-walked and enclosed, _

_ 'The heart, the mind, the body of man, prepared to tread, cautiously, _

_ 'Though interest never quite stirred him, _

_ 'Though distracted and yearning, _

_ 'Perhaps accustomed to floriculture; forgivable, understandable, _

_ 'He walks and walks and walks and walks on, _

_ 'He looks but doesn't see; he wants but doesn't take, _

_ 'What excitement lay through the trees, through the forest? _

_ 'If he were verdant, would he know? _

_ 'If he were floral, would he, too, be stepped upon?' _

 

Sherlock’s voice had dropped down to a murmur at the end, and John knew that he’d failed to keep calm; his cock was undeniably hard in his trousers, and his fists were clenched, blood hot and loud in his ears. His entire body was tense and tingling, burning.

 

"So," Sherlock said, and his voice was still low, "did you think that was 'good?'"

 

John swallowed, not quite trusting himself to speak. But Sherlock was casually scanning the page of the book, waiting.

 

He cleared his throat and adjusted himself on the sofa. "Er -- yes, I thought so. Although I've not much of an ear for this sort of thing."

 

"Pity. Expected, though." Sherlock slowly closed the book, looked up, and studied him, and John knew immediately he'd lost; he'd been deduced, his careful months of hiding his bodily reactions were all for naught under Sherlock's piercing, calculating gaze.

 

"I --"

 

"You like my voice," Sherlock said, interrupting him. "It arouses you."

 

John shut his eyes for a moment, trying to claim back some sense of decency, trying to will his prick not to twitch. "Oh, it took you that long to catch on?" It came out weakly, but enough sarcasm to keep him afloat.

 

"Of course not. I'm flirting, John, keep up."

 

_ Flirting? _

 

“Of course, you were hoping I’d explain that deduction for you.” Sherlock said, low and enunciated, gaze dark and focused.

 

Oh, oh God. “That’s flirting then, too, I suppose,” John said quietly, feeling a bit lightheaded. His cock throbbed.

 

Sherlock smiled, eyes crinkling. “Very good, John. So let’s deduce together. When did I notice this particular fascination of yours?”

 

“Sherlock -- I don’t -- that is --”

 

“Come on, now, John,” Sherlock said, setting the book down and standing up, walking towards him slowly. “Give it a try.”

 

John watched, frozen and fascinated, as Sherlock took a seat next to him on the sofa and quite boldly placed a hand on his thigh. He immediately looked away with a small intake of breath, fixed his eyes on the carpet. His cock was straining at the front of his trousers, and he hated it, but his body wanted so desperately for Sherlock to touch him.

 

So much for not complicating things.

 

He racked his brains, fogged by arousal.

 

“...The case, today,” he offered, face burning with the admission, as Sherlock began rubbing small circles on his leg, making his hips twitch up.

 

“You can do better than that, John,” Sherlock murmured, “Although it was quite something to see how strongly I’d affected you even outside the flat.”

 

_ Outside the flat… that’s a hint. _

 

“Not… when you wouldn’t go out…” John flicked his eyes up to Sherlock, who was so intensely focused on him, eyes sharp and lidded, observing him.

 

Sherlock slid his hand up and over the pronounced bulge in his trousers and leaned in to his ear, whispering.

 

“Further. Back.”

 

It felt like something inside of John snapped and broke; he moaned softly as Sherlock squeezed gently at his prick through his pants, and his hips pushed up desperately. This was all happening too quickly, too perfectly, too well-engineered…

 

“I… I don’t…” John’s fingers trembled, wanting to reach out and embrace Sherlock but not wanting to break the game he was playing. “The… the day you came home to me writing… You came up behind me…”

 

His heart raced as Sherlock undid the button and zipper on his trousers and reached in to pull out his cock, embarrassingly hard and sticky at the head. John’s head tilted back as he felt Sherlock’s long fingers wrap around him and start to stroke.

 

“Closer.”

 

“I don’t know,” John moaned, “I don’t know how… when… oh, fuck, Sherlock --”

 

Sherlock’s breathing was growing heavier, he was leaning into John, and his hand was squeezing and pulling just right, twisting his wrist at the end of each stroke. It was too good, and John’s hips started fucking up into his fist, helplessly; if John were to try to stop, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to, pleasure twisting up his spine.

 

“You hadn’t gone out that day,” Sherlock whispered roughly, “You’d stayed in the flat; your coat hadn’t moved on the hook. It would have been perfectly normal for you to have been in your room, but you were purposefully in the living room -- you wanted to prove that you weren’t nervous about something.”

 

His grip tightened and John whimpered, eyes clamped shut, humiliated beyond belief but so excited, so aroused by the sound of him and the smell of him and his relentless attention.

 

“You were around the corner, faced towards me -- defensive. Something to do with me, then, and indeed there was a pause on your typing as I walked in the door. Had you broken or lost something of mine? No, nothing was amiss and the door to my room hadn’t been opened. You, however, had been holed up in yours for some time that day.”

 

“Sherlock --” John choked out.

 

“Usually you masturbate every few days, and it was right on schedule for you,” Sherlock murmured, crowding him further, practically on top of him. John could feel the hard line of his prick against his thigh, and the idea that this was erotic to him as well was otherworldly, too good. “So clearly you had been thinking of me while you touched yourself -- and it was rather good, too, by the unenthusiastic response to my greeting as I walked in; trying too hard to seem indifferent.”

 

“You -- you knew --” John was panting hard, starting to lose control, pleasure creeping higher, cock getting impossibly harder as Sherlock nearly began to rut against him.

 

Sherlock finally swung his leg over John, straddling him, pushing him down and jerking his cock faster, leaning in with a sultry whisper:

 

“I knew the moment I walked in the door.”

 

John gasped and came hard through that perfect stroking, feeling his bullocks contract and prick shoot over Sherlock’s hand and shirt and trousers. Sherlock milked him through it, slowing down but massaging every last drop of spunk out of his spent cock.

 

“Oh, John,” he heard Sherlock say, almost reverently. John pried his eyes open and saw Sherlock’s face, overwhelmed with evidence, pupils blown wide and hunger all over him. He could still feel that cock against him, and although he’d gone soft, he could still feel the tingle of arousal, the desire for more.

 

He lifted himself on an elbow, bringing a hand to Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock flinched slightly at the touch.

 

“Let me,” John said, looking up at him. Sherlock drew a hard breath in through his nose and closed his eyes momentarily before standing up; acquiescence.

 

John slid off the couch and onto his knees, putting his head level with the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers. He slid a hand over the tented fabric and looked up. Sherlock was staring down at him, studying, fascinated.

 

“I wanted this for a long time,” John admitted, unfastening Sherlock’s belt, undoing the button. “I hated myself for wanting this.”

 

“I know,” Sherlock murmured, not sympathetic, just knowing, and if he hadn’t just come, John would probably be hard again.

 

He undid the zipper and pulled Sherlock’s cock out, gripping it at the base.

 

“Tell me more,” John whispered, trying his best to be coy. It worked; Sherlock let out a soft moan and wet his lips, looked down at him darkly.

 

“I wondered when you’d break,” he murmured, and John let his tongue lick slowly up the underside of his prick. “It was a fantastic game; I saw your reaction to me behind you, the way your shoulders tensed, the way your breath hitched when I spoke.”

 

John opened his mouth and took the head in his mouth, hollowing his cheeks and sucking.

 

“I wanted to see how far I could push you. I teased, I observed every reaction, I saw that you were far more quiet when I was speaking, drinking in my words.”

 

Humming around the cock in his mouth, pushing it to his throat and back again, feeling Sherlock’s hips stutter forward, John could feel his own cock stirring with interest again.

 

“When you stopped masturbating altogether when I was at the flat, I knew you were becoming more obsessed.” Sherlock’s voice was becoming ragged. “I knew I could act, break more boundaries. I deduced you, and you were so hard up, so aroused, face flushed, pupils wide, trembling, I thought you might come over instead of rushing to the shower.”

 

John moaned softly through his nose, and he felt a hand cup the back of his head, guiding him down. Spit was overflowing over his lips, dripping down his chin.

 

“Then, oh then, Mrs. Clarke’s house.” Sherlock moaned. “I was showing off for you, and you knew it, but you were like a little schoolgirl with her crush, looking at me with those doe eyes, making a mess of yourself in public. Anyone could see; you were so obvious… Unseemly, John… So naughty…”

 

John could tell that Sherlock was lost in the fantasy of it, but his prick was twitching as well with those filthy words coming from that mouth. He reached down with one hand to rub himself, gripping harder with the other on the base of Sherlock’s cock, forcing more of the head to brush against his throat, breathing hard through his nose, bobbing faster…

 

“I knew you were distressed. I knew you were desperate.” Sherlock’s breaths were coming quicker, his words nearly spit out, eager and urgent. “I knew that if I picked up the poetry book you would say something, I knew you would make fun and I knew what to say to get you to ask me to read, I knew you would be terrified when I actually started, I knew which poem to read to titillate you, I knew we would be here, I knew you wanted me to deduce all of this, I knew you would end up on your knees with me in your hot, wet mouth -- Oh, John, John --”

 

John wasn’t certain if Sherlock was inventing some of his as he went along to work them both up, he almost never was, but he didn’t care; he too was fiercely turned on, feeling like a puppet that had been played, the perfect culmination of months of fantasy as he felt the prick in his mouth twitch and spurt as he swallowed around it, Sherlock moaning through it all, finally at a loss for words.

 

His throat was wrecked, and Sherlock’s heavy, exhausted breaths were telling as well. John wiped his chin and got up only to collapse back on the sofa, and Sherlock joined him, tucking his cock back into his trousers.

 

“Well,” John said, and his voice was deep and gravelly, totally shot.

 

“Quite,” said Sherlock, breathless.

 

John allowed himself a little chuckle, the absurdity and exhaustion grasping hold of him, the relief, the frustration, the annoyance, the gratefulness. 

 

“You are insufferable.”

 

“Quite,” said Sherlock again, this time with a small smile.

 

“How did you know?” John asked finally, “How did you know that I’d ask you to read the poem, or that I’d --”  _...Be on my knees. _

 

Sherlock looked over at him, eyes gleaming.

 

“Save that for next time,” he husked out dramatically, and John beamed.

 

\--

 

John didn’t really even have time to worry that this was a one-time game, a fancy of Sherlock’s that was now sated. When he went to retire for the evening, Sherlock looked at him like he was mad as he began to ascend to stairs to his room, and John happily gave in and joined Sherlock in his bed.

 

The next day when he woke, Sherlock was out, and John had some time to himself, alone with his thoughts of what had happened. It was arousing beyond belief that Sherlock had toyed with him for so long, and he wondered if there were parts that weren’t even shared with him yet, if Sherlock perhaps had deduced this was coming even before John did. He resolved to ask later, flirtatiously.

 

There was something absolutely hilarious about the fact that Sherlock quite literally got off on explaining it all to him, but John had no room to laugh, seeing as his fascination was just as bad. Really, it was too perfect; too good of a fit. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson; roused by danger and having a nice shag over deductions.

 

He shook his head, smiling to himself, and decided to read a bit on his day off, drawn to the poetry anthology that Sherlock had read last night, wanting selfishly to relive a little bit.

 

John opened to the contents and scanned, looking for ‘Flora’.

 

...Scanned, then read carefully.

 

It wasn’t there. Nor was there an author included by the name of Sherrinford Hayward. He flipped through the pages, looking for one that might have been slipped in. He went online, and discovered that there was no poet by that name, no author, no one. There were several pieces with the title ‘Flora’, but none that matched the poem he heard yesterday.

 

John laughed in disbelief, and texted Sherlock.

 

_ ‘I have a deduction for you.’ _

 

His phone beeped almost immediately.

 

_ ‘Can’t wait to hear it. SH’ _

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Sherlock fic, and I couldn't be happier at how it turned out! I am not used to writing in British English, so my apologies there. The poem is one I wrote for this fic, and the name "Sherrinford Hayward" came from what Sherlock was originally going to be called in ACD's books ("Sherrinford") and a random last name. I know I'm a bit late to contributing to the fandom, but I hope everyone enjoys this -- please let me know! I love these boys so much and they were extremely fun to write.
> 
> If you are 18+ (which you should be if you are reading this) you can follow me on my Tumblr where I post erotic mind control fiction (and fanfics) from time to time at http://h-sleepingirl.tumblr.com


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